


Well Met in Darkness

by lynndyre



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: Eroica is burgling a house, and just perhaps, making some progress.





	Well Met in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllic/gifts).



A Grand Tour could only be drawn out so long. Dorian, Earl of Gloria, had made the utmost of his own, in a trail of adventure, theft, and occasional carnality that traced the length of Europe and beyond. And now, with the last of his elder sisters safely married, and his name and reputation his own to do with as he pleased, Dorian was quite enjoying his return to London. It had much to recommend it, from the profusion of shops to museums to interesting people- to houses filled with art that yearned desperately to belong in his keeping.

Fielding's ball was a crush, stifling hot inside with the windows closed to accommodate the eccentricities of the Prince of Wales, should he deign to attend. The mass of people swirled beneath constantly replenished candlelabra and chandeliers that dripped hot wax on them as they passed from ballroom to supper room to card rooms to balconies. There was constant motion, the press of so many people - showing off, pairing off, gaining knowledge, wasting time, earning prestige. 

Dorian watched it from the safety and blissful cool of the garden. He was not among the invited guests- though he might have been, had he sought the invitation. He knew Fielding from the clubs, and by reputation. But tonight his objective was one of Fielding's latest Continental acquisitions.

The constant traffic between the house and gardens- of those seeking escape from the heat, or a stolen moment with a paramour- allowed Dorian, clad in dinner jacket and disguise, to slip easily into the milling guests. From the garden proper it was a short, twining path up to the steps, to the heat of the indoors, and from thence to the teeming ballroom, the hallway, a discreet inquiry for the retiring rooms, and to the fringes of the revelers- and from there to the private rooms. 

Dorian slipped easily into the library, lit only by the fireplace, and slip out into the servant's hallways behind the second door. The floor plans were marked out clear as a treasure map in his head. Servant's hallways through the rear of the house, servant's stair up to the second floor- dodging a maid and two footmen, returning with further supplies to the revelry below.

The music of the ballroom was muted up on the higher floors, an afterthought, making only the ghost of an impression. Dorian made for Fielding's study. As is only sensible with so many strangers and members of high society about, the door was locked. The lock is easily picked. Eroica slid the pick back into his hair, and slipped inside.

The study was dark, but not empty.

The moonlight through the slitted curtains reached for Dorian's feet, and he slipped away from its touch, into the far doorway and the inner study. Dorian froze. At the desk, lit by a single candle, and with a small but extremely serviceable pistol trained on the doorway, was Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, formerly of the German cavalry, now a member of the network of foreign offices, and currently in the process of searching Fielding's paperwork.

Not merely collecting art on the continent, then. Fielding must have been up to a great deal more than that to interest Klaus' people. The ability to aquire art from Napoleon's occupied territory took on a different light.

Dorian raised his hands to show them clear, and pulled off the dark wig concealing his hair.

"You." 

"Darling." Klaus was beautiful, even angry to see him. Especially angry, it flashed in his eyes so delightfully. His hair was longer than it had been in Bonn, longer still than Milan. Dorian had a brief, glorious daydream of Klaus' hair as long as the Man in Purple's, and resolved to revisit it later at great length. 

For now, at least, Klaus had lowered the gun, and returned his attention to the desk. He began pulling free the papers he wanted. "Don't get in my way." 

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm here for art, not spywork." He moved closer to the desk, and Klaus allowed it, kept working as Dorian assessed the desk itself. Klaus had found the hidden drawer already, and it was too small for Dorian's objective. He moved to the other paintings in the room, checking the backs, and then to the bookcase, testing each section of paneling in turn. Finally something clicked.

Dorian could feel the moment Klaus' attention fell on him, that small lightning charge running up his neck. The triptych, stolen from Hungary, passed through the hands of Napoleon's armies to reward a traitor, was there, and Dorian reached for it even as Klaus loomed at his shoulder. Behind the painting, and an inferior and lewd statuette, was a small table where further papers waited.

The noise Klaus made was a pleased growl. He swept past Dorian, and Dorian swiftly folded the triptych, wrapping it in his scarf and stowing it within his jacket.

"What, no reward for finding your hidden papers?"

"Well done-"

But Dorian reached for his own reward. His hand trailed down Klaus' chest, just firmly enough to avoid tickling, just lightly so to be infuriating regardless. Klaus allowed the touch, and Dorian pressed his advantage to draw closer. Klaus still smelled the same. His longer hair brushed Dorian's face, and the muscles of his chest were hard beneath shirt and waistcoat. 

Klaus tasted like tobacco, heavy and dark, overwhelming the faint aftertaste of wine. His lips were hard beneath Dorian's, but they merely scowled and did not retreat. 

"Enough. There is something abnormal in your thinking. Everything that goes into your brain comes out twisted."

"The assessment is mutual, darling." Dorian withdrew slowly but schooled himself to a businesslike demeanor once more. "But you're right. I should be going. Haven't you a speech to give on the theft of national treasures?"

Klaus did not take his handkerchief to his lips. Scant ground, but well earned.

"Better you than the Corsican. Or his lackeys."

"Such delightful possibilities that opens up."

"Stick to unoccupied territories, you dunce. Yours is exactly the sort of head they'd welcome a chance to take."

"It's good of you to think of me." It was beneath him to play the coquette, but a few batted eyelashes could usually be relied on to distract Klaus- if only in disgust. This time Klaus' hand just closes on his wrist, solid as an iron manacle.

"No calling cards. Not this time." He waited for Dorian's assent before releasing his grip. "And stop ruining the name of good German music."

Dorian grinned. "It's a beautiful piece. I'll take you to a concert sometime."

"I'll sleep through it. And I'm never going to a concert with you."

The energy between them could have lit the whole room, and Dorian glowed with it as he secured the triptych against his body and made his way to the window. Klaus pinched out the candle as he drew back the curtain. Below and to the left there was a balcony, and below that the garden. The ball had moved on to the supper hour, calling the guests inside again, and the garden was clear. He swung one leg over the sill. 

Klaus held up a hand. "Have you a decent escape planned, or has James sold your horses again? "

That still rankled, and the incident was one which Dorian was loathe to revisit. He scowled. "James has a horrible old hackney waiting, and plans to drive it dressed in rags. Bonham is in charge of the horses, and seeing the thing doesn't rattle apart."

And of course that amused Klaus, the bastard. 

But then he reached into his breast pocket, retrieving the parcel of letters he'd taken from the desk. "Can I trust you?"

Dorian looked from the papers in his palm to Klaus' grip to the shadows of his face. It was dark enough he could not see the green.

"Yes."

Klaus released his hold on the papers. "No funny business. No tricks."

Dorian slipped the papers into his own jacket, over his heart. "None." For dealing with traitors, he could restrain a few of his theatrical instincts. Especially if it meant an excuse to see Klaus again.

"Tomorrow."

Dorian gave a flourishing half-salute and dropped from the sill, towards the garden, the street, and the open city night.

Above him, Klaus watched for a long moment, thumb resting against his lips. Then he relatched the window, and returned to the party below.


End file.
